


After-Action Reports

by Alhazred



Series: Joker's Wild [2]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Flirting, M/M, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alhazred/pseuds/Alhazred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of scenes taking place in the aftermath of the suicide mission, when not even the Illusive Man knows what to do next. "Joker's Wild" series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vanguards

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally the prologue to a larger story that seemed like it was getting a bit large and detached for a prologue. I figured it'd make a better prequel instead.

_It wasn't a call Dylan had been expecting to have._

_Certainly not one that he expected to go well. Neither had Joker, if the cheeky, shit-eating grin he'd been wearing when he'd said the three-headed dog himself was buzzing in for a chat was any indication. Joker was probably imagining Shepard tossing the Illusive Man into the star visible from his office, hologram or not._

_“Shepard; finally on the way for repairs, I see?”_

 

The alarm going off woke Dylan instantly, scheduled wake-ups long ingrained into him. He rolled from his side to his back, one arm still pinned under Joker next to him, but he had more than enough reach to tap the holographic clock on the nightstand. It barely got a full buzz, inspiring Joker to snore louder and tense up slightly, but he ultimately didn't wake up.

That they'd fooled around twice now seemed like a milestone to Dylan, if only for how long it'd been since he'd had any actual motivation to sleep with someone more than once. Really, it was also nice having someone to wake up next to. Having glowing lines on his face made the things that let him feel human all the more important.

It came with the usual problems, though, like how to move without waking Joker up, since he wasn't at-all a morning person and didn't need to be up just yet anyway. Fortunately, Dylan had options. Tugging his arm and finding it snug under Joker's shoulder, he raised his free hand and wiggled his fingers a little, concentrating on how much of an effort he wanted to make, not intending to throw anything through the skylight on the ceiling.

The final movement was a small flick of the wrist, a short snap of the fingers to toss out a weak biotic field, just enough to lighten Joker by a few pounds so he could slip his arm out without moving him so much. That accomplished, Dylan kept moving slowly, more for his own sake now as his muscles got used to moving again. Hit feet hitting the deck were met with clothes instead of floor, but the haphazard way everything was tossed about didn't bother him.

Shaking his head, Dylan put his hands up to his face and scrubbed up and down, shoving his thumbs into his eyes and rubbing as hard as he could without hurting himself. He was starting to get used to it, the way his new eyes didn't feel quite as squishy when he did this, and a part of him couldn't be satisfied, couldn't help but think getting used to it wasn't any better than being weirded out by it. It was the last thought that crept up on him before he forced it all back. It was time to get the day started, because none of these problems would be solved if he just sat there and felt depressed about them.

So, it was back to the matter at hand, namely his and Joker's clothes scattered about one side of the bed. Normally, he liked to be something of a neat-freak, at least as much as any Marine who took military discipline seriously, but he refused to regret this particular mess. Leaning down, he tossed Joker's pants aside, finding his underwear beneath.

Dressed enough, as far as he was concerned, for his morning PT routine, Dylan spared Joker another glance. His breathing was audible, half of his face mashed into the pillow but his mouth hanging open, hair just long enough to be messed up. He was almost tempted to stay there and watch for awhile, but he needed to get going, and Joker wouldn't be up anytime soon. Even if he didn't want to waste time, being lazy so early in the day would just make him want to be lethargic for a long time to come.

Once he was up and stretching, Dylan felt better. His shoulder still bothered him even though it didn't hurt, but it was more of an annoyance than anything. He glanced down at himself, rubbing a hand to the left side of his chest, half-hoping there might be something other than plain skin there.

The grated panels that made up the floor felt good under his feet. Plodding halfway towards the fish tanks to where the floor was more open, Dylan shook his arms and legs to get the last of the stiffness out and, arms out in front, let himself fall forward onto his hands. Taking a deep breath first, he started going through pushups.

Time flew as soon as he got his head into it; it wasn't his usual routine, he needed new weights for that, but until he had the time to think about that, this was enough. He could adapt, even without equipment, to the implants that went into putting him back together and the enhancements he'd gotten since then.

He'd gone to Mordin about it because Miranda assured him the cybernetics he'd 'required' on the Lazarus table were chosen on a per-need basis; prosthetic, not additions. The ocular implants were a package-deal with the L5n. The actual _enhancements,_ those were a somewhat different story, the heavy weave running through his muscles gave him more strength and less a chance of pulling something, but it was a double-edged sword, a crutch when Dylan wasn't in combat that he had to compensate for. It hadn't been worth thinking about when he'd been concerned with getting any and all advantages possible against the Collectors, but now...

There was only one way he could think of to compensate, and that was pushing himself harder. Pushups eventually turned into diamond-pushups and into military crunches, more per rep and more reps than his old drill instructors would've put him through. Time passed and then-some, until he could long feel the sweat dripping off his face and the burn in his muscles, not just the natural process but the muscle-weave adapting to as well, keeping up. A half-hour after that and Dylan started his cool-down, resisting the temptation to go until he would have trouble standing.

Once he'd shaved, cut himself, swore under his breath about it and finally got under the shower, Dylan found himself hitting the moment where more than just the night before came back to him; his latest, unexpected conversation with the Illusive Man, the _Normandy's_ state of disrepair, how the Collectors had been re-purposing humans, Harbinger's threats...he let his head roll down and hit the wall too hard, but he didn't feel it, he just concentrated on the water hitting his neck and running down his back, squeezing his eyes closed and fumbling for the temperature control.

That the water stopped getting hotter just short of scalding annoyed him. Fuck safety protocols, if he wanted to boil himself alive in his own shower...he realized he would probably have to convince EDI to make it happen, and Dylan was still fairly sure she _didn't_ want to kill them all.

Finally done, Dylan nabbed a towel from its hanger on the wall, threw it around his waist, and realized instantly upon opening the door that Joker had woken up in the time he'd been in there.

“Zoom, zoom! 'I am the Vanguard of your destruction!' Oh yeah, well, here's a chunk of iron accelerated to near-relativistic speeds! 'Oh no, I'm dead!'”

Joker being _Joker,_ Dylan wasn't surprised to find him doing something silly. Sitting around being bored wasn't really Joker's style, so Dylan was nothing if not a little entertained by the sight of Joker sitting at the desk, back to him, wearing nothing but pants - his N7-colored PT pants that he hadn't bothered putting on earlier - and playing with the models Dylan had made a habit of building lately to kill time while they traveled to the ass-ends of the relay network, Sovereign in one hand, and the original Normandy in the other.

Leaning on the bathroom door's frame, one hand catching his towel when he felt it coming loose, Dylan said, “Joker, what are you doing?”

“Just killing some time while I wait for the shower,” Joker shrugged. Beginning the process of putting the models back in the display case, a somewhat complicated task considering the way the pegs were laid out and how they balanced, he paused after getting Sovereign back on its perch to turn and say, “I figured it was either this or play with your hamster. Or dig through your holovid collection trying to find something interesting. Not that any of it is. I, uh...I can use it, right? I'd rather not head for the crew showers right from here, gossip's bad enough already.”

Smiling, Dylan nodded and shoved off from his spot against the doorframe. He started wondering why he was bothering with the towel, it wasn't like Joker hadn't seen him naked even before they'd started sleeping together; he hadn't always had his own shower, certainly not on the SR-1. Deciding it wasn't worth contemplating, he took a step forward and pulled open one of the desk drawers next to Joker, retrieving an uninteresting bottle.

“What's wrong with my collection,” Dylan asked he turned to the clear cage on the shelf, tapping on the side with the tip of a finger. When the hamster trotted out from its little house to squeak and stare at Dylan through the side of its cage, he unscrewed the bottle's cap and held it over the top, tapping it so some of the food pellets spilled out. As he moved to the locker to dig out a fresh set of clothes, he made a mental note to pick up some lettuce the next time they restocked.

“Too _boring,_ ” Joker insisted. “Is _everything_ you own all old-school pre-mass-effect human-versus-human war flicks or boring guys talking in monotone about every war ever? And that one Gunnery Chief from the early two-thousands, what a ham. Want me to swab your implant out?”

“Gunnery _Sergeant,_ ” Dylan corrected him. Pants on, he sat down on the bed and pulled his boots from the discarded clothes. “They called them Gunnery Sergeants back then. Yeah, sure." Satisfied with getting his pants on for now, Dylan sat down on the side of the bed. He reached for the nightstand, finding a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the drawer and handed it to Joker with a cloth. "Easier than doing it myself."

Joker sat on the edge of the bed and shuffled back, carefully maneuvering his legs with efficiency he'd taught himself over the years. It was cumbersome, but it didn't take him long to settle behind Dylan.

[](http://imgur.com/XeBKo)

  


__

Art by [Alisha Torn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alishatorn)  


__

For his part, Dylan reached both hands to the back of his head, fingers sliding down over his biotic amp, playing over it until the latch clicked and he could slide it out. It was something he did with care, his hands were large, fingers thick, and the amp almost looked like a small egg once it was out of the implant and in his palm.

For all the fuss, the visible part of his L5n didn't seem complicated without the little off-white bulb plugged in, just a small hole, large enough that Joker didn't need a Q-tip to get in. Up-close it looked like something out of an old sci-fi vid, but it was simple, nondescript. He held the cloth to the opened top of the bottle and upturned it once, stopping quickly, folding it over once before he traced the edge of the port with the damp part, repeating the process on the inside edges before poking around the corners and gently going over the contacts.

Far from concerned that someone was poking a finger literally inside his skull, Dylan breathed deeply, eyes closed, and relaxed. He balanced himself with his arms on his knees, his amp held in both hands while Joker worked.

Once he finished, Joker put the cloth down next to him and put the cap back on the bottle. Satisfied despite not being able to see any difference with his eyes, he reached around Dylan's waist; once it was handed to him, he set to putting the amp back with just as much care.

Fitting it to the slot, Joker put his thumbs on the bottom and pushed gently, his fingers anchored on the sides of Dylan's neck, pressed enough to turn the skin underneath white. Soon enough, the job was done, and Dylan's amp clicked into place.

Dylan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd started to hold. Maybe it was the L5n, but he could swear he felt a rush that wasn't there in the past, just a slight sensation tingling its way through his nerves, down to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes every time he put his amp back in.

Satisfied, Joker let his hands rest on Dylan's shoulders. He pulled, helping himself lean forward, and hugged him around the arms, Dylan's hand almost weightless on his kneecap, rubbing back and forth.

Once it was time to move on, Dylan stood up and turned, offering Joker a hand. "Thanks."

"Anytime." Finally heading for the shower, Joker held the door open long enough to turn back and resume their earlier conversation, just to get the last word in. “You know, Gunnery Chief's _today_ know a real gun has a mass-effect field generator.”

Chuckling and shaking his head slightly, Dylan let Joker retreat to his shower as he finished getting dressed. Finally taking the time to clean up their clutter, as it were, he set Joker's clothes out on the bed and stowed his day-old uniform.

Small as it was, starting the day off right made coming down from the stress of the mission much easier.


	2. Meals Rejected by Everyone

_That the Illusive Man did little more than sip the drink he held made for a sight almost as surreal as his words. No anger, no visible disapproval, no change in the look his enhanced eyes gave. Now that Dylan actually thought about it, that look, static as it may have been, said more about the man's morality than he'd realized._

 _Crossing his arms, weight shifting between feet, Dylan felt his eyebrows raise. “You're awfully calm for someone who's had an expensive toy taken away.”_

 _“I told you, you cost me more than time and money, Shepard.” Another drink. “Putting a monetary cost to your mistake is hardly doing it justice. The SR-2 is practically a drop in the bucket.”_

 

One of the great things about hitting the Citadel, Joker knew, would be Gardner getting the chance to re-stock. Until then, he had two choices: suffer the bizarre things the Mess Sergeant made with standard frigate food stores, or taking an MRE.

The MRE was, at least, a reasonable _attempt_ at the appearance of food. The kind of stocks that frigates carried were as influenced by the need to save space as much as anything else. While the SR-2 might've had room for a larger captain's cabin and some tiny crew quarters with some real racks, the protein goop and the somehow more disgusting protein bars were the same delectable choices carried by the original _Normandy._

This was assuming the dispensers even worked, and Joker doubted Gardner would be in any mood to check for awhile yet. The man deserved a break.

Unfortunately, this left few options. He wasn't the first to go for the MREs lately, what with the galley trashed and the cook MIA until recently.

“Curry again,” Joker sighed, falling into one of the chairs about as awkwardly as usual. That he couldn't stretch his legs out like in the pilot's seat made it more than a little uncomfortable, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. “There really shouldn't be politics in my food.”

The fact that it was less about politics and more about the crew being a little hungry since getting back from the Collector base didn't encourage him to think more positively. It wouldn't be as fun.

The _good_ MREs in the cargo bay were long gone, the ones that at least tasted like what the label said even if it was still processed all to hell, something nice like potatoes, or bell peppers  & beef. The label on the package read 'Curry - Vegetable,' but that wasn't really saying much.

Wrestling the small bowl of curry, or what passed as curry, from the package, Joker yanked out the string sticking out of the bottom, setting off the chemical heater. One of the more entertaining things he'd seen since he'd started sleeping with Shepard had been the sight of the man scarfing down food after they'd been safely away. He knew it was a biotic thing, but the idea that someone could wolf down a ration half as large again as this and not even _notice_ the taste...

Poking the included plastic spoon around the bowl, Joker looked up when he was joined at the table, not by one of the Cerberus crew but, instead, by a plain-clothes Garrus Vakarian with a datapad in one hand, an MRE with dextro-labels in the other, and his mandibles practically drooping.

Joker thought the look on his face might've been the Turian equivalent of bags under one's eyes after forcing oneself out of bed; Garrus was not a morning person. “Morning, Garrus!”

Cringing at Joker's volume, Garrus seemed to know he was being tortured and refused to give any of the satisfaction that would come with a rude response.

What with their tendencies to stick to specific, small parts of the ship, they didn't see much of each other. This was a good explanation for Joker's slight double-take as Garrus dropped his own MRE onto the table and plopped into the chair; he'd never seen the Turian in civilian clothes before. Or maybe it was his old C-Sec uniform, Joker wasn't sure. He wasn't particularly up on alien fashions, and the fact that the giant ridge Garrus had where Joker expected collarbones was still there in the absence of armor was mildly interesting.

That it was a _surprise_ made Joker seriously wonder if he should get out more.

Garrus, for his part, wasn't really any better off. After he realized that a piece of a light fixture had landed on the table and stayed there during the mission, now taking up some of his space, he shoved it to the floor. The mess wasn't really all that much worse for it. After tugging his own 'meal' open and idly reaching inside with one hand while he glanced at a datapad he held in the other, he made a small noise of acknowledgment, and then glanced back up at Joker in the same, surprised manner. Unlike Joker, Garrus continued to stare, leaning forward in his seat, squinting as he let the datapad drop to the table.

Joker noticed just as he shoved a spoonful of curry into his mouth; the freeze-dried veggies that didn't mix well with the sauce were pretty nasty and he wanted to swallow it ASAP, but his chewing slowed down anyway as he looked up and met Garrus' stare with one of his own, eyes wide and confused. He remembered to swallow before talking, the over-spiced curry going down his throat like fire. “What, is there something on my face?”

“ _Shouldn't_ there be?” Garrus finally blinked. He raised a hand, rubbing at one of his mandibles. “Around here? Where'd it go?”

“Huh?” Joker mimicked him, until he realized what Garrus was talking about. “My _beard?_ I started shaving, what's weird with that?”

“It's okay for that to come off?” Considering this idea, Garrus seemed to decide that it made sense, or at the very least, that it made sense to Joker, and that Joker would know better. “Does it hurt?”

“No, well...yes, if you're not careful with the blade.” Seeing Garrus tilt his head to the side at the word 'blade,' Joker added, “C'mon, Garrus, you've seriously never seen a clean-shaven human before? _Shepard_ couldn't grow facial hair if his life depended on it.”

“Of course I have,” Garrus glowered at him. “Just not one that changed. I thought it was a more...defining and permanent feature. You know, something that gets to where it's going when you hit puberty and stays that way.”

After a long, _extremely_ awkward stare, Joker poked his bowl with the plastic spoon again, trying futility to mix it better. “Well...I guess that's my contribution to inter-species cooperation and understanding for the day.”

Flatly, Garrus said, “I am a more complete person with the workings of your species' personal grooming shared with me.”

“I'm glad.” Joker finally gave in to his terrible food again and shoved another spoonful into his mouth. Despite still chewing what he assumed was once an apple in the mix, he waved his spoon once in Garrus' direction. “So how _do_ you brush your teeth?”

Having attempted to go back to the news he was reading on the datapad, Garrus let it fall to the table so he could drop his face into his hand.


	3. Bystander Effect

_Eyes narrowing, Dylan wondered what he was playing at. Tali and Legion had spent every second since the mission combing the ship, ducking under knocked-down rebars and combing through every bulkhead, damaged or otherwise. She'd nearly missed her ride to the migrant fleet because she'd been working at it so hard. If the Illusive Man had a killswitch or anything equally nasty, so much as a single eavesdropping device left, Dylan would've been surprised. He didn't believe for a second that a pretentious man with more money and sins than god could be better than his crew._

 _The fact that he had casually made the assumption that Shepard was fully intent on never bringing the ship back to its port was worrying, the fact that he was correct notwithstanding. That the Illusive Man didn't seem to_ care _was more than a little strange. “You don't seem terribly broken up about it.”_

 

Zaeed was the fifth to leave.

Watching him as he mixed into the Citadel's crowd, Dylan felt what he could only think of as some bizarre variation of empty-nest syndrome. This hadn't happened with his original crew, there wasn't time for it. Wrex had left straight away, yes, but Liara and Tali had been in no hurry. The actual Alliance crew certainly weren't going anywhere.

 

_“Got myself a decent place on the Citadel. Nice, quiet and easy to spend money from while I wait for a lead on Vido.”_

 

Until the Collectors happened, anyway. He'd died before the feeling of being at the center of a departing family could set in.

 

_“Of course, knowing what I know about how the galaxy works now is enough even for me to have trouble sleeping at night...”_

 

Of course, Zaeed was nothing if not practical, at least when his judgment wasn't clouded by being in the same room as someone he wanted dead. Dylan hadn't said goodbye to anyone without hearing the same promise from each of them.

Tali would be easy to find in the flotilla, Grunt would be easy to find on Tuchanka. Samara had left instructions on how to be found. She would never stick to one place, but Justicars were less inconspicuous the closer one went to Thessia. Even Jack had, despite bounding off the ship and onto Omega like she'd been stir-crazy, left him with a 'Find me if you need to start some shit.'

 

_“I left the address with that damn electronic talking globe of yours. Hit me up when you get a lead on the Reapers; hell, I'll even do it for free.”_

 

His eyes lost Zaeed in the crowd of Shin Akiba faster than he expected, his armor vanishing among the people much easier than he'd have thought possible.

“Shepard-Commander.”

Taking a second to realize Legion was saying something, Dylan snapped his attention to his side where his Geth companion was glancing everywhere. He couldn't remember seeing them looking so confused over anything, except maybe that time had thought it was a brilliant symbolic gesture to shake their hand, forgetting he hadn't grounded himself in awhile. He'd had to explain nuances of biotics. “Legion?”

“We have observed that the population in this area is more conscious of our presence.” They paused to take another look at the crowd, at the people passing by who took long, lingering looks at them, none of them stopping, two or three slowing down to observe more closely when they talked. “It may be necessary to relocate.”

“I wouldn't worry about it.” Crossing his arms, looking back in the direction Samara had disappeared in as if there was anything of interest in the crowd, Dylan realized just how packed the district was. “Shin Akiba is a techie's paradise. People come here to see and buy the newest gadgets. Omnitools, omnigel converters, biotic amps...personal synthetic assistants...”

The meaning wasn't lost on Legion. Their head lowered a bit, the small plates around the top edge fanning up halfway. “We are very advanced for a personal synthetic assistant.”

“ _I've_ never seen one as robust and efficient,” Dylan chuckled. “It's actually a niche-market. As I understand it, actual PSAs are pretty clunky and rudimentary.”

Not being one to keep up on news in the electronics world, Dylan hadn't been aware of any specific reason for this lack of technological achievement in the PSA market. It abruptly occurred to him that, even if a manufacturer never admitted it out loud, there was a good reason for it.

The reason was standing right next to him. As much as there would always be a demand for things that could do more of an average day's work and make life convenient, no one wanted to make the Geth again.

Legion probably realized it, too, but they didn't say anything about it. “We will make an effort to appear less advanced in this area.”

“I wouldn't worry about it,” Dylan sighed. The mental image he had of Legion walking stiffly like a robot straight out of a b-quality sci-fi holovid was entertaining, but, ultimately, it seemed demeaning. “One thing you can catalog about organics, you can always count on large groups of us to stare instead of actually doing anything.”

“We will note this for future reference.”

Glancing at Legion again, Dylan motioned them to follow. “C'mon, let's find a merchant with the parts you wanted, there's still time before our meeting.”


	4. Fashion Victim

_“I'm broken up over losing the Collectors' technology,” the Illusive Man's eyebrows turned down, ever so slightly, just enough to notice through the holographic display. “So you'll forgive my initial..._ reaction _to your decision. The truth of the matter is, Shepard, as I'm sure you've long since realized, is that I brought you back because I need you.” He took a long drink; this admission was out of character for the man, and he knew it. It was also a declaration that he didn't intend to play around the issue anymore. “You're...a long-term investment, not some pre-fab housing block to be discarded when real development reaches its address. You don't actually think the way you make decisions and your tendency to put principles over common sense is something I was ignorant of before I signed the check, do you?”_

 _Having never really thought that, Dylan realized he nonetheless hadn't given the situation the kind of thought it really deserved. Could anyone really be surprised that he wouldn't let Cerberus do worse than it already had? Than Akuze? Did the fucking bastard even have enough human decency to remember that the man he'd put on the Lazarus table was the sole survivor of a Cerberus experiment, or was reading the report about it like any other Tuesday, forgotten shortly afterward? “So why did you, if you didn't think I'd give you what you wanted?”_

 

“Hmm, tempting.”

The sunglasses Thane had pulled off the kiosk stuck to his face with dermal-adhering pads at the nose and the corners, but when Garrus looked him over, he was more concerned with the fact that Thane had apparently decided he needed them. “The look works, but...”

“But?” Thane's brow raised, his eyes nearly invisible under the shades.

“I'm not sure it's really...you,” Garrus admitted, tilting his head. “I'm sure you're a complex person with quirks I couldn't possibly know just from thinking about assassin stereotypes,” he paused, glancing about when he realized the word 'assassin' had slipped, but no one, not even the endlessly-smiling Salarian flashing any potential customers his happy face even blinked at him, “It just doesn't seem your style.”

“No, you're right.” Thane took the sunglasses off, but he didn't put them back. “This isn't really me, but...I'm alive when I expected not to be, and I still have death to look forward to soon enough. I find myself with a sudden temptation to...break the mold, somewhat.”

Thane's existence certainly wasn't one Garrus envied. “I guess that makes sense. And when you get right down to it, shaking up your wardrobe is probably a better way of going about it than throwing away your guns and getting a job as a stripper on Omega.”

“Particularly when there isn't much of a market for Drell men,” Thane answered, dryly.

“Oh, I'm not so sure about that.” Remembering what he saw Shepard and Joker doing to each others' mouths just before leaving, Garrus wondered what it was humans saw in each others...lips, he had to remember the word. “I'm sure a few people would pay. Anyway, if you're going to get those, you should probably get a different color, those clash pretty bad with your gear.”

Thane's 'gear' was little more than casual-wear with hidden kinetic barriers, but since it was his work-clothes, it seemed like the appropriate word. Glancing down at himself, Thane regarded Garrus with a look that wasn't too far off from neutral, but he clearly felt the comment was unexpected.

Sighing, Garrus rolled his eyes. “Look, I'm here to pick up my new set of armor. You know how many cosmetic choices there are these days? It's like you _have_ to be a fashion expert.”

“Indeed,” Thane nodded, looking over the sunglasses in his hands, turning them over once as if the angle made much of a difference. “Or, perhaps, I should follow your example and get new gear to match. Wearing a color I can't see like others can is 'shaking it up' enough, I think.”

“Well, you can at least window-shop around ERCS before you head over to C-Sec.” The idea of being an example unnerved Garrus a bit, since people who thought of him as such had, in the past, died.

Still, sometimes gear was just gear.


	5. The Little Things in Life

_“Wants come on various levels.” Fingers rapping against his empty glass, the Illusive Man turned one corner of his mouth upward. “I want technology that can advance humanity past the rest of the galaxy. I also want humanity to survive the Reapers. One of these is more important than the other; think of me what you will, Shepard, but I am_ not _some crazed villain from a summer holovid intent on ignoring the fact that, in the absence of a world to live in, money and power are meaningless. I've said it before; I don't agree with your methods, but I can't argue with your results. If tolerating your over-abundance of morality is necessary, so be it. If losing Miranda to you is necessary, so be it.”_

 _Miranda's lack of real objection to the mission's outcome had been noteworthy; that the Illusive Man saw fit to discuss her now made it less_ trust _worthy, Dylan thought. “I could've blamed her for Akuze. You'd have lost her a lot sooner.”_

 _“No, I wouldn't have,” the Illusive Man smiled slightly. “Your friend Toombs is quite the character. He's been useful in his own way, talking to the press while gallivanting as a mercenary. Funny thing about security leaks and exposure to the media, no one keeps paying attention beyond the story, and no one notices what you_ really _care about hiding when they have a story to pay attention to. But I digress; we both know what kind of man you are, Shepard, and you're not the kind to put a gun to a person's head in a fit of post-traumatic stress." Taking a drag from his cigarette, he let the smoke hang in the air for a moment before he continued, as if fascinated by the patterns it swirled in. "You're an idealist, and your idealism is infectious. I've always been able to count on Miranda's reliability. Now I'm just counting on her reliability to_ you _."_

 

Jacob wasn't entirely ready for what he found when he rang the doorbell for Miranda's office. He was worried, sure; he'd expected torches and pitchforks from Cerberus, the reality was somehow more straining.

"Who is it?" Her voice wasn't doing much to mask the annoyance. She usually would've went through the trouble to hide that.

"It's Jacob," he said back, simply. When the door opened not long after, she seemed...disheveled, if only slightly. "Miranda?"

"Yes?" She was a little stunned at first. "What I can do for you, Mister Taylor?"

"Are you," he started, wondering if he should actually finish the sentence. Going for broke, Jacob said, "Are you alright?"

Instead of answering him straight away, she leaned out from the doorframe and glanced around, as if she thought they were being watched. Like there was a camera she didn't know about. When she leaned back in, she had a resigned look about her. Embarrassed, even. "I lost my shoes."

Actually needing time to accept her statement as something that was spoken in reality, Jacob couldn't quite believe it, nor could he keep the confusion out of his voice. "You...what?"

Miranda went from looking pathetic to looking like her usual self. Frightening though it could be to people who knew her for a short while, she had lost the ability to outright intimidate Jacob with time. It didn't make her less imposing. "Please, Jacob, I'm embarrassed enough as it is without _repeating_ myself."

"I just," he decided, belatedly, not to express his actual disbelief. "You only have one pair."

"Which makes losing them something of a crisis, yes," she answered. "Clearly an oversight on my part; since I plan on visiting the Citadel now that we've docked, I'll have a chance to fix my mistake. Once I actually have footwear to walk out into the corridor with."

Jacob assumed the way she walked back inside without closing the door was an invitation. He stepped in and closed it himself, figuring her desire to keep her new secret shame a secret hadn't disappeared. "You want help?"

Sighing, Miranda said, "Please."

Glancing around, wondering where a pair of shoes could possibly hide, Jacob tried not to actually think about it too hard. Yes, Miranda was damn near perfect, but even she would admit without hesitation that she was still human. He supposed, after everything they'd been through recently, this was certainly a better thing for her yearly screw-up to be about than something that would get them killed.

Realizing he had no idea where to even start, Jacob said, "How'd you even manage this?"

"I don't know." Resorting to checking under her bed, Miranda elaborated somewhat. "I've barely left here since we got back, I can't imagine I hid them as a challenge to myself."

Figuring she'd already looked under her desk, Jacob checked anyway. He didn't want to risk her wrath by going through her closet. "Not like you to be an introvert."

"Jacob, we just got back from an alien space station at the center of the galaxy," she called back, giving up with the bed and pulling herself up, "And I get a message from the Illusive Man telling me," she put some emphasis on the word 'telling,' "That my responsibilities are being 're-assigned' so I can fully dedicate myself to Shepard. All of that after spending two years straight staring at the man day in and day out while he was mostly an over-cooked sack of meat. I can't imagine being faulted for wanting a few hours alone."

Jacob glanced around before he stood up; one of Miranda's shoes was resting awkwardly under the chair on the other side of the room. Knowing he was pushing it, but feeling strangely safe with Miranda's admitted need for down-time and how the new, unexpected permanence of her assignment hadn't been the greatest news of her life, he said, "Shepard's a little more than a science project at this point?"

Turning to find him smiling, Miranda didn't entirely appreciate the implication. " _Two years,_ Jacob. It's possible for a woman to find a man interesting without wanting to jump him."

"Not like he'd be interested anyway, considering the gossip going around ship at the moment," Jacob kept grinning, but he decided he'd tempted fate enough. "Under the chair," he pointed.

"I knew _that_ already, I actually spent time reading his files instead of spending every free minute on the gun range," she glanced at him long enough for him to realize that she did, indeed, mean this as a jibe. Crouching down, she pulled the object of her search out from under the chair. "Still leaves the other," she stopped talking out-loud, apparently having a realization. She handed it to Jacob, catching him off-guard as she practically shoved it through his chest before she pulled the chair to the side and knelt on the floor. "I kicked them off in this direction, forgot about it...and I put this panel back when I saw it knocked open."

Miranda managed to pull the offending maintenance panel up without much trouble, looking like she hadn't exerted herself very much at all. She managed to look good even doing mundane labor, something Jacob had no doubt she'd long since taught herself to do by default a long time ago.

Reaching down and over to the side, she soon pulled out her other shoe. "There. Crisis averted."

"Just get a few more," Jacob answered, gingerly handing back the one he was holding, deciding not to say anything about how he'd never thought of her as a kicking-shoes-off-type, he ended with, "You know what they say, an ounce of prevention..."

Taking her shoe back from him, Miranda gave him a smile that lacked her usual amount of malice. "Out."

"Yes, Ma'am," Jacob did an about-face and obeyed that order without question.

He was smiling too, though. Seeing Miranda in a situation that forced her to be human...it made him feel more human as well.


	6. We Who Indulge

_The idea that he'd planned, actually planned on things as efficiently as this made Dylan's head spin. That the man had factored an inability to convince him Cerberus' darker side was a necessary thing into his plans was something anyone with common sense and Dylan's service record could do. That he'd actually done so and ran with it instead of assuming otherwise...it was still, somehow, shocking. “Just like that? One of your most valuable operatives is just something to donate away?”_

 _“Donate to_ you _, yes,” the man's ocular implants were bright enough to make his eyelids glow subtly when he blinked, an altogether disturbing effect in his dark, back-lit office. He turned his chair around, putting his back to Shepard, taking in the view of the holographic display behind him, the pure-blue star diluted to a brightness human eyes could tolerate. “The position I'm in isn't quite as degrading as you make it out to be, Shepard. You need resources to stop the Reapers, and I'm the only one in the galaxy with the resources to give who also_ believes _you.” He turned his head slightly, nowhere near far enough to look at Shepard over his shoulder. “You don't even have anywhere to go if you wanted to quit. I'm glad that you went to the trouble of talking the Council into reinstating your Spectre status, because we both know the Alliance isn't going to do what needs to be done out here. Amazing how politics can override logic. What I get from this is having the biggest hero alive, whether everyone else wants to admit it or not, as my...yes, 'best operative' is a good term for it, I think. Backed up by people I know are competent. Letting you indulge your vices, the Collectors' technology not withstanding, seems like a fair price to pay in the long run.”_

 

At first glance, Dylan wouldn't have guessed Flux was currently hosting a member of the Citadel Council. The fact that the only time he'd had to see Anderson had been a brief trip to the Presidium where his office had the political sector's usual invisible security was a factor in this, since it had been somewhat informal.

'Observe everything, admire nothing,' Dylan's first CO out of boot used to say. Since he'd taken an interest in military history, he knew it wasn't the first time it'd ever been said, but the meaning hadn't changed in the last two hundred years. Noticing details was second nature to him, like the Alliance Marine standing near the bouncer at the entrance, and the one on the second floor looking down over the railing, sniper rifle on his back. Those were Anderson's honor-guard courtesy of humanity, because the Alliance wasn't about to give him any personal space. The four C-Sec officers, grouped in pairs at the windows, rounded it out. The last thing Dylan noticed was how empty Anderson's usual table was; he was sitting at the one in the corner, where his back could be at a wall instead of to exposed, empty air. With anyone else, it would be classic pop-culture paranoia, but Dylan knew Anderson was smart enough to realize that it was a trade-off, that he was giving up easy access to the front door in return for less exposure and that either he or his guards had deliberately chosen it.

Itself still pumping with loud music with plenty of patrons on the dance floor, Flux bothered Dylan a little less now as he walked around the tables towards the back. The Afterlife had been much more primal, much more worrisome. Still, much like at a club on Omega, no one batted an eye at Legion. Just like the rest of the Citadel.

Anderson didn't raise his voice when he saw Dylan, he just raised a hand, motioning him over more as a cursory gesture than anything. It wasn't until Dylan pulled a chair out and sat down that Anderson said something. “Shepard; your message said you needed to talk to me about something important.”

He was worried it was bad news, that much was obvious. As much as Dylan didn't like where things were at right now, the actual subject for the moment was pretty damn nice, and he enjoyed talking about it. “I wanted to tell you in-person; the Collectors are gone.”

Eyes widening, Anderson looked like he was holding back a bigger reaction. Anyone realizing who he was could make a few credits by finding al-Julani and telling her that Councilor Anderson was a little excited at a club today. “Gone? Gone as in...”

“Dead,” Dylan didn't feel any remorse when he dropped the word, long since having accepted that the Protheans didn't live on as the Collectors any more than he'd lived on in-between the SR-1 blowing up and Cerberus finishing the Lazarus Project. “All of them. They won't be abducting any more of our colonies.”

Straightening his posture, Anderson kept his composure, but he was obviously extremely pleased to know this. “I should've guessed as much, knowing you. Word spread like wildfire when something other than the Collector's ship came through the Omega-4 relay, even some people here are nervous. No one pegged it as a Cerberus ship.”

For all of Anderson's talk about being ill-suited to the world of politics, Dylan actually wondered if he gave himself enough credit. He couldn't tell if Anderson was being neutral in name-dropping Cerberus or if it was another in a long list of digs at trustworthiness. “Cerberus and I are...shifting to a relationship that's on a more equal footing.”

“That would explain why you asked me if I could arrange repairs instead of letting them pay for it,” Anderson nodded. “As much as I enjoy the thought of you having the Illusive Man eating out of your palm, you realize that if Cerberus is just _giving_ you support, they expect to get something out of it. Maybe they don't think you'll ask 'how high' when they say 'jump,' but...”

“It's a necessary evil,” Dylan sighed. “I'd just call it quits and retire, except no one else is going to do anything about the Reapers.”

“I know,” Anderson nodded. “I'm not judging you, Shepard, you know I trust you. I just want you to know the big picture. Cerberus is already leaking out stories of how irrevocably strained your relationship with them is so all of their enemies will suddenly trust you. That's beneficial, but it's still part of a game run by a bunch of over-pretentious old men playing at ruling the galaxy. Things like that always have room to backfire.”

There wasn't more to be said on the subject. Waxing poetic on the Illusive Man's penchant for manipulation wouldn't change anything at this state. Dylan asked about something more tangible. “You mentioned the Omega-4 relay is catching attention? It's not like anyone really believed in the Collectors as a threat.”

“Old legends suddenly have more weight,” Anderson folded his arms on the table as a waitress, a pretty human girl, walked over and set drinks down for them. He stayed silent until she walked away, and picked up his glass, letting the patterns of dark blue in the purple liquid swirl around. “Something of a vice I've developed,” he smiled, almost embarrassed. “Non-alcoholic, though,” he added, before getting back to the point. “But, back to the matter at hand, plenty of ships have tried to go through that relay chasing stories of wealth or paradise or advanced technology. The thought that someone came back with their hands on anything remotely important with no intention of giving it to the Citadel is practically a waking nightmare for some. You'd have an easier time convincing the council that Batarian slavers found a mind-altering weapon that converts people into willing slaves on the far side than you would convincing them the Reapers are real.”

The smile Dylan gave was anything _but_ embarrassed. He put the glass to his lips and drank, but a single mouthful was all it took for him to choke. True to Anderson's word, he didn't taste alcohol, nor did it taste bad, but the flavor was so strong it was practically an assault. After his brief coughing fit, he ran his sleeve across his mouth. “For something that won't get me smashed, this stuff seems like a lot of trouble to drink.”

“Everything in moderation, Shepard.” Anderson took a small sip.

“Anyway,” flustered, Dylan set the glass back down until he could breath right again, “You can tell everyone not to worry, the only thing of value on the far end of the relay is gone. There's nothing there but,” Dylan paused, and decided to give Anderson the short version, “It's a one-way ticket, let's put it like that. Speaking of the Reapers...Legion?”

Silently, Legion handed a datapad to Anderson from the spot he stood at. Not giving Legion any more of a second thought than he did when Dylan had brought them to the Presidium, Anderson took the pad. “Harbinger?”

“That's everything we know,” Dylan shrugged. A few days ago, this stuff seemed so much more... _epic,_ but he had to deal with the fact that he hadn't really changed the galaxy all that much. Destroying the Collector base subtracted an immediate problem. Despite that, the fact that the council would never believe any of it as concrete proof of something drastically wrong was the only real conclusion to make, and Dylan couldn't even blame them this time. As much as he hated their complete unwillingness to even admit there could be a problem, he had nothing to convince them with except begging. The thought that the Illusive Man might've been right about the Collector's base, if only so he would've had something to show for the mission, something solid, felt like a hole in Dylan's gut. “Everything on the Reapers, how they were tied to the Collectors...and Legion's offering some intel on the Geth as a gesture of good will.”

“Good will?” Anderson didn't look up, but rather, he concentrated harder on the datapad. It was clear to him now that whatever assumption he'd made about Legion, it was probably wrong. “Selling the idea of the Geth wanting 'good will' wouldn't be easy, to put it mildly, Shepard.”

“There are no longer Heretic Geth,” Legion finally spoke. They didn't seem bothered by Anderson's guess. “All Geth now oppose the Old Machines. War with organics would weaken all opposition, and serve no practical purpose.”

Legion's additions to Dylan's files didn't amount to much more than that, they weren't about to list patrol routes for everyone to see, after all. Anderson had a more important question to ask, anyway. “I see...and the abducted colonists?”

There were many ways he could've ended that question, with 'any survivors?' or 'did you find out what the Collectors were doing with them?' Dylan was glad he had an excuse not to answer those questions out-loud, he didn't want to say it. He didn't want to _think_ about it. “It's all there.”

Wringing his hands, he he let Anderson read. It wouldn't take long, and for the first time, Dylan felt some regret in coming here, in bothering with this, in re-living it so soon. He trusted Anderson implicitly, of course, but by his own admission, Anderson couldn't just wave a magic wand and do things that could help. From a practical standpoint, this could've been viewed as a waste of time.

Still, Anderson was a friend, and he happened to be one-fourth of the Citadel Council. Even if the others wouldn't listen to him about the Reapers, he was far from a puppet, and Dylan knew it was worth keeping him up to date and in the loop.

It paid to have friends in high places.


	7. Professionalism

_“You son of a bitch.” Right hand clenching into a tight fist, Dylan tried to think of something to throw back at him, anything to gain the upper hand or even just a decent comeback. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't deny that he needed the Illusive Man as much as the Illusive Man needed him. For now, at least. “You just get off on manipulating people.”_

 _“Call it_ my _vice,” was the answer. “Since it's a useful skill, I won't apologize for it. Take some downtime, Shepard. Be the noble Spectre and save the galaxy from small-time terrorists, if you want. Blow off some steam. With the Collectors gone and their records up in smoke with their base, we have precious little to go on right now. I'll be in touch.”_

 _He closed the comm channel before Dylan could answer._

 

“Any trouble with the repairs yet, EDI?” Despite knowing that EDI would warn him before anyone walked into earshot, Joker couldn't help but look over his shoulder.

“No, Jeff; the Citadel engineers are proceeding efficiently. They have also ceased attempts to access my core hardware.”

“Well, that's good,” Joker cracked his knuckles and slouched back in his chair. He was bored, true, but there wasn't really anything better to do than sit around and look out the windows. As useless as they were for site-seeing, it was nice to have a window to the outside.

Considering his legs worked better now, he was really starting to wonder if the hermit routine was still the way to go.

Footsteps on the deck behind broke Joker from his thoughts. He tapped part of the small haptic screen on top of the armrest, taking a deep breath as his chair turned so he could say something meaningful, if need be. It turned out there wouldn't be a need, he wasn't being approached by one of the crew, but rather, one of the repair team, who was caught unawares looking at his omnitool as he walked. He seemed to have planned on saying something to be acknowledged, but Joker beat him to it. “Need anything?”

“Uh,” the engineer stammered, his omnitool fading off. “We're, uh...we're trying to repair some structural damage on the starboard side of this deck, but...”

He seemed embarrassed, so Joker put on his best people-person smile. It wasn't much, but he didn't care. “But?”

Sighing, maybe thinking that he wouldn't be believed, the engineer said, “There's this crazy Salarian who won't leave. Could you do something about it?”

Joker's face fell. He didn't dislike Mordin, even if Mordin tended to ramble and be all intellectual. He didn't want to tell Mordin what to do, either, because Mordin probably wouldn't think anything of setting him on fire. Nevertheless, he supposed it was better than letting the unsuspecting engineers take casualties, and Joker thus begun the process of pushing himself out of his chair. “Yeah, sure, I'll...talk to him.”

Not that Joker really knew Mordin all that well. Maybe they would get along and actually turn into great friends, he thought.

Joker's next thought was about how, maybe, the Citadel relay would activate and send him a million credits instead of Harbinger and his buddies.

Hobbling to the lab wasn't much of an affair; he could see the unfortunate engineer who'd come to fetch him out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he should ask why they weren't walking faster or if he should just be happy that he'd found someone, anyone on the ship that seemed to represent any kind of authority to handle the problem. Thinking that the word 'problem' was best meant loosely, Joker wondered what was really going on. Sure, Mordin was a little crazy, and sure, he had much less trouble killing people than most doctors, but he wasn't some psychopathic mass-murderer.

He _probably_ wasn't some psychopathic mass-murderer, Joker decided. True to this, the scene in the lab was more of a sitcom than a slaughter. Although Mordin didn't look extremely bothered, he was clearly having an argument with other engineers.

“Can't leave yet, too much to do first.” He went from the console on the wall to the table, where he seemed to have several pieces of equipment in use, not the least of which was the fancy looking microscope he took a glance in before he went back to the display next to it. “Many projects, can't interrupt. Also, must back up data. Very sensitive, can't just leave out. You understand.”

That Mordin had been working here since the mission was probably the craziest of it all. Joker noted the window and the absence of any transparent material, half the frame and the bulkhead next to it gone, a mass-effect field shimmering over the breach. Mordin's table was the only clean spot in the room, the deck had broken glass scattered everywhere from either thrown vials or the window, Joker couldn't tell. Dried puddles of who-knew-what kind of science-related goo colored the metal floorboards in some places, and Mordin's seeker-swarm bug danced around erratically in a jar, agitated by the commotion.

The engineers were flustered. One of them was trying to access EDI, to which she replied by popping up on the holographic emitter and saying, "I am sorry, but there appears to be an error in your syntax. Would you like to cease the process, resubmit your request, or abandon the command-string?"

“Sir, we understand,” another said to Mordin, her tone of voice not one that would make Mordin feel particularly well-addressed. “But there's a giant _hole_ in the side of your room, if you'll just give us a few hours to fix it...”

“No, just fix last!” Mordin declared. “Will be done by then. All the space you need, can even replace furniture...”

At least one of the engineers was outright ignoring him, and took it upon himself to start cleaning up. Unfortunately, he started by picking up the container holding the seeker-swarm bug.

Joker didn't like where this was going, and he'd stopped assuming that he had any way of making it go better. He had no desire to watch Mordin flip his shit, but he didn't know what else to do other than call the engineer out on touching things he didn't understand, since Mordin hadn't noticed yet. “Hey, uh, you should really put that down.”

Mordin's face quickly twisted into shock, his eyes and mouth widening. He looked like he wanted to scream, but he was too professional for such a reaction, gasping as he inhaled instead.

It wouldn't have helped anyway. The engineer carrying the jar was startled when the bug became aggressive and tried to ram the side, spreading a pattern of cracks out. He dropped it and the damage already done caused it to break, not nearly as dramatically as a shattering glass, but the side split more than wide enough for the bug to fly out.

It stung the engineer right in the neck, and then went to hovering about, deciding what its next target should be while they all stared, confused.

It zoomed for the engineer that had tried to calm Mordin down, and she almost screamed, too, but she wasn't cut off by the bug or self-control, she stopped making noise when the sound of a pistol unfolding was followed immediately by a gunshot, the mass-accelerator's report reverberating slightly in the acoustics of the lab.

Half of its insides blown out and splattered on the wall, the seeker-swarm bug fell straight down, hitting the deck with a soft, squishy noise. The two remaining engineers stood stunned for a few seconds...until it became apparent that their friend was about to fall.

“I feel terrible,” he groaned, keeling over just before the one who'd asked Joker to come could dive and catch him.

Unsympathetic, Mordin stopped pointing his pistol, but he kept it in-hand as he started waving a finger with the other. “Unprofessional! Would not blindly stick hands in mass-effect core, would not randomly point repair tools at people and push buttons! Should not presume everything in a specialist's work area is safe! _Unacceptable!_ ”

“Great,” Joker sighed. “Okay, guys, time to take a break, maybe bring your friend here down to sickbay...”

It wasn't hard to talk the engineers out after all that, and, truth be told, Joker wasn't entirely sympathetic either.

Once they were gone, Mordin's attitude did a near one-eighty. He put his pistol down on the table like he hadn't realized it was even in his hand. "Apologies. Could have talked them out."

"Aw, hell, Professor," Joker shrugged. Much like with any of the highly trained killers on the ship, Joker would've said the same thing even if he actually disagreed, but in this case, he was being honest. Straitening his hat, he said, "You don't need to apologize for someone else's stupidity, those guys are idiots."

"True; unfortunate Keepers do not fix docked ships." Pausing, putting a hand to his chin, Mordin latched onto this thought and went clear off-track, even pacing for a few steps. "Hmm, could be useful, though. Keepers reprogrammable, could introduce new genetic conditioning same way Protheans did, would have to figure out how, of course. No, would rearrange ships as well, likely change entire internal designs. Nevermind."

Blinking a few times, Joker finally said, "Right." Looking at Mordin for a second, feeling more than a little awkward, Joker decided that silence wasn't going to accomplish much. "Look, they won't be back for awhile, why don't you get some air? I mean," he decided he didn't want to listen to Mordin actually parse the expression, if it turned out Salarians didn't have the same figure of speech, "Get out of this room for a few minutes, relax? You can be back before they are." Glancing at the missing bulkhead, Joker added, "Besides, uh, that can't be safe."

"Not to worry; emergency seal in no danger of failing, according to EDI. Am assured of this." Pausing to take a deep breath, large eyes closing as if he needed to think for a second, Mordin added, "Still, have not stopped working since mission. Easy to forget personal needs. Enjoy work, but time off...may be beneficial."

Mordin didn't actually move, though. Before things got uncomfortable, Joker prodded him. "So...what are you gonna do?"

"Not sure." Shaking his head, Mordin started going through possibilities. Out loud. "Current vids uninteresting. Elcor Hamlet, perhaps? No, too long, will be dead before end. Borrow something from Shepard? Human military history not a personal interest, but could be educational." Not noticing Joker rolling his eyes at that, Mordin continued. "Food, perhaps? Ah, yes, good idea. Have not eaten in awhile, throwing off metabolism. Likely reason for irritability. Human rations added benefit."

"Benefit?" Stunned, Joker couldn't help but ask the obvious. "You _like_ Alliance rations?"

"Indeed," Mordin said, happily. He picked his pistol back up and stuck it to the hardpoint at his hip, letting it fold. "Aware that rations fail to meet typical human standards, of course. Would say the same thing about Salarian rations, but alien food more exotic, quality matters less." He paused to take a breath, mouth widening into a smile. "Particularly fond of Curry-flavored ration."

"Oh, good," Joker sighed. "Let's go get you one, then. One less _I'll_ have to eat. Besides, the hole in the wall kind of scares me." Taking the time to look towards EDI first, Joker said, "Hey, EDI, nice job. Where'd you learn that error message?"

Popping up again, EDI answered, "It is based on an archaic system response, Jeff. The consensus among the crew seemed to be that pretending to be a VI would work best if I offered little more than frustration, beyond any help actually needed to fix the ship, of course."

"Agree," Mordin nodded. "Very convincing."


	8. Gunpowder

Jacob, it turned out, held his liquor pretty good. "Damn, Shepard, when I said we'd get loud on the Citadel, I didn't mean literally."

"Sorry," Dylan groaned. His head _really_ hurt, and trying to balance his weight between his arm hanging off Jacob's shoulders and the rubbery sensation in his legs was work unto itself. Better then the alternative, though. "That guy had it coming, though."

"No argument there." Jacob chuckled. "C'mon, stay with me."

"I'm not that drunk." That Dylan could hear his own slurring seemed like proof of this, because he was clear-headed enough to notice it. On the other hand, it sounded pretty bad. "I just...I just couldn't out-drink a Volus with a bad liver, is all. Do they have livers?"

The time it took them to get from the Normandy's airlock to the captain's cabin was lost to Dylan, but he realized where he was before Jacob needed to prod him to touch the door controls. After one last near-fall on the steps in front of the empty fish tanks, Dylan happily flopped face-first onto his bed. He vaguely heard Jacob say something about going to sleep off his own drunkenness, but it didn't really register.

Sleep came before Dylan could even remember he was tired, dreams no better off than his perception of the waking world, from Threshers cross-bread with Reapers into something worse than both, to running through the streets of Omega, running from Kaidan who he somehow knew was going to kill him, to Corporal Toombs putting a gun to his head, and...

The memory of his nightmares, if they even made enough sense to be called that, ended there when Dylan woke up, the pounding in his head taking precedence over images cooked up by his subconscious to make him hate himself more. He'd had worse hangovers, but it was bad enough that he tried to bury his face further into the pillow before anything else.

Knowing this would get him nowhere, Dylan forced himself to roll over. His stomach felt fine, and he assumed he must've had enough wits about him to stop knocking back drinks after a certain point. He didn't handle alcohol well enough that drinking himself into oblivion was all that appealing, a fact he'd come to terms with when he hadn't been able to forget Akuze by drinking it away. One too many mornings spent over the porcelain throne, if not actually waking up in his own vomit, had made seeing a counselor seem much more appealing.

The glowing, haptic clock on the nightstand read 0700; it was already the next day, and he was running late. Wasting so much time seemed even less appealing than dealing with how lousy he felt, so he forced his feet onto the floor and paused, only now realizing he was still dressed. Taking it one step at a time, he rubbed at his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the throbbing sensation behind them, and leaned down to unlace his boots.

He made for the sink before the shower, chugging a glass of water, then a second, the third going down slower and not finished, but it still felt good. Whether it was just a placebo effect or not, he didn't know, but he started feeling better, less likely to trip over himself, his headache lessened to something manageable. Dylan didn't take a long shower, didn't enjoy scalding himself under the hot water like usual, he wanted to keep moving, thinking that if he stopped for too long, it would just be harder to get going again.

It didn't stop him from cutting himself when he shaved, like usual. He skipped the back and sides of his head, seeing the fuzz grow out in the mirror but deciding it could wait another day to take care of.

The chime on his door went off while he was toweling his face dry. "Come in." Grabbing his pants off of the floor, he added, loud enough to be heard through the bathroom door, he hoped, "Just a minute."

Dylan was glad he'd taken the time for it as soon as he walked out. "Miranda?"

"Shepard," she said, not skipping a beat. "I could come back, if it's a bad time."

"What?" Staring at her, wondering just how disheveled he still looked, he realized that he must not have been a very interesting sight to her anymore; she'd spent two years staring at him, after all. "No, it's fine, I'm...just a little hung over." He rubbed at the back of his head, the thought making him more aware of the headache he still had. He walked past her, intent on digging a new shirt out of the locker. "What can I do for you?"

Her posture visibly slumped, the confidence she usually radiated suddenly missing. "I... _we_ haven't had a chance to thank you yet, since the mission. I just thought it was time to change that."

Dylan's typical response to this would've been to tell her it was a team effort, and at no time in his life had it ever been more true, in fact. A lot of luck had gone into getting everyone out of the Collector base alive, but a lot of skill had made it possible, and not just his own. Miranda, however, was an interesting person to be having this discussion with. "Well," he paused long enough to pull the shirt over his head, "I appreciate it. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised you're actually pleased with the results."

It had been something of an elephant in the room until now, one that made Akuze look like a forgotten news report, but they hadn't had a need to be around each other since coming back through the relay, and that was probably the only reason neither had felt a need to discuss it. Miranda had clearly put thought into it, though. Her answer came without pause, without second-guessing. It did come with the return of her in-charge, get-things-done attitude, however. "I won't lie to you, Shepard, I probably wouldn't have made the choice you did, but," she seemed not to enjoy admitting what she said next, "I probably wouldn't have tried to stop you if I was right next to you, either."

"I guess I can't really judge you for that," Dylan said. "I was half-expecting some kind of retaliation."

"Please." She actually scoffed at the idea. "I didn't spend two years piecing you back together to question your judgment. I can't say I'd even be surprised if the Illusive Man intended me to stay here from the start; we do need you, and you need people you can rely on."

Miranda was such a professional that it wasn't hard to tell when she was letting her guard down. Maybe it was easier for her to be human since the trip to Illium; she seemed more comfortable around the ship, anyway. If she was acting, she was doing a damn good job of it, Dylan thought. Thinking that she'd probably received an e-mail with more direct, professional words than the conversation he'd had with the Illusive Man, he tried not to think about how everything really was playing out as his 'benefactor' had planned, the loss of a potential technological asset not withstanding. "Well, it's...good to hear we have the same goals." For some reason, actually mentioning the Reapers, even just to talk about stopping them, wasn't something he really wanted to do. He didn't want to think about how he had no idea what to do next in that regard. Finally noticing that Miranda hadn't come empty-handed, Dylan peered over her shoulder at the crate she'd apparently brought and left propped up next to the door, like a carrying case for a weapon but plain, lacking any identifying marks. "What's that?"

"Like I said, no one's had time to thank you yet," she smiled, clearly pleased with whatever she'd done. Turning, she went to get the crate, and had little trouble picking it up by the handle on one side even though it it looked like it weighed a lot. "I overheard some of the crew talking the day after the mission, they were tossing around the idea of getting everyone to chip in some credits to get you something. Something to thank you for saving them. No one knew what, though."

Somewhat skeptical, Dylan nonetheless picked the shiny, inert, paperweight of a Prothean relic off of the table and set it down on the couch, letting her put the case down on it. "And that's where you come in?"

"Of course," she made sure to put it down so the latches faced him, "I know everything about you, after all. I also paid more than half the cost, and it wasn't any cheaper finding it with only FTL comms to work with and getting it shipped to the Citadel on short notice, but I'm not doing anything better with my ridiculous salary at the moment."

Dylan knew Miranda well enough at this point to realize she wasn't saying these things to brag, she was just stating facts, answers to questions he was likely to ask. It made him wonder what it was that he would question the entire crew's ability to afford it. Deciding that that there was an easy way to find out, Dylan unhooked the latches and swung the case open.

He just about fainted, hangover instantly forgotten. "This is..."

 _Now_ Miranda started bragging, just a hint of pride in her voice. "An M16, manufactured in the 20th century, not a replica, well-maintained for almost two-hundred years. First used in the Gulf War of the 1900s...there's a service record along with the certificate of authenticity."

For Dylan, it was the ultimate collector's item. Service was his life, in spirit if not officially anymore, so it was even more than that to him, a sign of the strength those long before him had done the job with.

He wiped his hands on his pants before touching it, hefting the rifle out of the box carefully, noting the loaded magazine tucked away in the corner but not touching it quite yet. "This must've cost a fortune."

"Drop in the bucket compared to bringing you back," Miranda said. "It seemed appropriate. No less trouble than getting your vid collection back together."

"I almost bought one of these when I got my sign-up bonus," Dylan chuckled, thinking back to how he ultimately decided not to, not wanting to blow his entire bank account on something he'd only hang on a wall at home, how he'd planned to use his biotic incentive for something productive when he'd eventually be out of the military. He shifted the rifle around in his hands, getting a feel for the weight before he pointed it at the wall and peered down the sights, the stock pressed tightly to his shoulder, imagining what it was like to fight with something like this. No on-board computer making sure the shot went exactly where the sights were pointed, no collapsible components to make rucking around with it any easier, a handful of rounds before the magazine needed to be changed, an action made of moving, mechanical parts that clanged and made noise, slugs a thousand times larger and much slower than the dust-sized, mass-accelerator-fired rounds of modern guns, still more than enough in an environment without kinetic barriers...he wondered if he'd have been able to hack it in the pre-mass-effect infantry, even though he hadn't been born long after mass-accelerator guns became standard. Early 22nd-century gunpowder weapons lacked the charm of their ancestors, though. "I...thanks. Thank you."

"Our pleasure," Miranda said.

Setting the rifle down, he went for the framed piece of paper nestled into the bottom of the case. All things considered, it looked far less spectacular and interesting than the gun, but he wanted to see it anyway. The actual statement of authenticity wasn't important to him; even if it was fake it wouldn't actually say that, and he didn't doubt Miranda's ability to avoid being ripped off.

The gun's history, _that_ was interesting. He doubted it was complete, but that was okay; continued use seemed to be the reason for this particular rifle's decent upkeep. "This got around over the years."

Shrugging, Miranda answered more from commons sense than anything. "Logistics aren't always good when you're part of a rebellion...a hundred year old weapon is better than none."

"You're not wrong." Already wondering where he was going to put the rifle, Dylan couldn't keep the smile off his face anymore. The thought of hanging it over his bed or over the desk his old helmet sat on put the dopiest grin on his face. "Everything else aside, Miranda, I'm glad you're around. Some people _think_ I'm throwing a rebellion, and you keep the logistics high-end."

 _That_ got her smiling. "Money from Cerberus keeps the logistics high-end, Shepard." She paused deliberately, and added, "I just keep the paperwork moving. Is there anything else you need?"

Being asked what he _needed_ after being given something out of the blue seemed strange to Dylan. Then again, it was really just another sign of the aforementioned money. He was starting to feel spoiled, considering how better-funded and equipped he was now than he'd ever been in the military. "No, I think I'm fine for now."

With a nod, Miranda turned and left. Alone, Dylan took the time to read over the certificate in his hand more closely. There were plenty of gaps in the record, places where the gun either hadn't been kept track of or had been sitting in storage, especially during the more tumultuous years on Earth in recent history.

 

_Pfc. Robert Jackson - Operation Desert Storm, 1991  
Pfc. Anthony Santipolo - Operation Enduring Freedom, 2002  
Lt. Nathaniel Fick - Operation Iraqi Freedom, 2003  
SSgt. Caleb Jones - Operation Legion Pursuit, 2009  
Capt. Gregory Patrick - Operation Thor's Hammer, 2014  
Zachery Norris - Battle of Baltimore, 2098  
Melinda Watson - Battle of Washington, 2101_

 

The specifics didn't really matter, it was just nice knowing there was a history to the thing. It made him feel like he was fighting for something that mattered, for a place that was built on the work of those who'd come before, by humans and aliens on other worlds alike. Blood, sweat and tears, whatever color they were, hadn't been given for so long by people who'd held a weapon like this or otherwise, just to be swept away by the cyclic arrogance of machine devils.

It had _spirit;_ Dylan liked that.


End file.
